


There is Love

by 222



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), ichabbie - Fandom
Genre: #IchabbieSpring, Alternate Universe - College/University, Effects of racism, F/M, Love will win, Married Life, they fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222/pseuds/222
Summary: There is love after the happily ever after.





	1. The Beginning, the Middle, the beginning of the Timeout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sneetchstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Orbit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058669) by [sneetchstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar). 



> "In Orbit" is my favorite fic. I didn't even know about fanfics until Sleepy Hollow. sneetchstar is my inspiration goddess and her story led me to write this extension of her creation. I am constantly moved by her prolific talent. I hope she accepts this with the awe and respect with which it is given.  
> Housekeeping: In conversations, Abbie is on the right, in italics, Ichabod on the left. Quotation marks seem intrusive, so they appear at the beginning and end of entire conversations, but I will restore them, if you need them.

The one and only fight they have in their 70-year marriage ends in the starburst who would become their one and only daughter. 

Misunderstandings were expected in the beginning, given they were engaged just three months after meeting, then, in a 10-month flurry, relocated to Oxford and married. Over time they have arguments, disagreements. Not many, even fewer as their love grows stronger. Still, they never shy from contention, knowing that it would cause more trouble to deny trouble. Their approaches are predictably different. She wraps her confidence around a noun-verb declaration and aims right down the middle. He constructs similes, metaphors, syllogisms, homilies, feints, poems, alliteratives and even riddles as he winds his way to his points. It is the reciprocating rhythms of their heartbeats that spoon translations and understanding onto their conflicting tongues. Through the years, differences of opinions become foreplay. Heated discussions are passions whetted.

So the crossed signals rarely last longer than the time that it takes a gloaming sky to cool from pinkorange to purple to black. There were a few flare-ups that made it to the turning down of their handmade quilts and linen scented with their snuggles. But with them, an arched brow, a smirk of plump lips, a sigh, a long-fingered touch, is all it takes to unknot feelings and salve flesh wounds. And the hot and sweaty make-up sex is a most welcomed accord.

This fight was different. The beginning, the middle, the timeout, and the end wore on for four days.

They lost sight of each other, something neither thought was possible. One of the foundations of their love, one that gives them comfort, is that each recognizes and accepts the other's uniqueness and differences. There are no attempts to change each other, to mold anyone into current outlines drawn by society. There are no excuses made nor blind eyes turned. There is no need for love-colored glasses. The elegant history professor and the classy ex-cop, criminal science professor see each other clearly, like what they see and fall in love deeply with what most cannot see.

Other women got lost halfway through his verbosely delivered opinions. Abbie is left breathless by the adventure his words and ideas take her mind. Oxfam benefitted from a trove of the latest in men's fashion as he always donated others' failed attempts to overhaul his singular style. Abbie gets wet every time he flips his chestnut ponytail over the high collar of his vêtements. She always put in thought and care when speaking her mind. But other men did not experience the rush of pleasure Ichabod feels by her sharpened intellect. Her retreat behind familiar walls validated the getaway tickets other men had in their back pockets. Ichabod finds a home within those walls as he stands guard over her heart.

They are two years into a marriage that has grown stronger with each dawn and more loving with each twilight. The mornings start with sat-isssss-Fuck-ion, then on to eggs, multi-grained toast, caresses and tender kisses, turkey bacon, coffee, fruit, tickles and more kisses, kisses, kisses--before his tight schedule as a professor and her leisurely schedule as an art student separate them for the day. Jazz or classical music soundtracks their nights as their evening reunions begin to the beat of him stirring, her tasting, them nibbling. He always lets her set the table because this longed-for rite of home moves her to fill their cottage with her sensuous vocals lifting the music. As they dine and relax into the flow of each other's voices, the clatter of knife and fork against his plate tells Abbie how much a student has frustrated him. Her half-eaten meal tells Ichabod she is struggling with an artwork. They don't use the dishwasher, preferring to stand side by side on the soft, worn azure kilim at the sink, letting warm suds slide over their hands. Between the washing, drying and tidying, a shoulder gets nuzzled, a temple kissed, a nose dabbed with bubbles, a cheek stroked, an ass spanked, coming attractions.

Weeknights make room for grading papers, studying ancient text and modern folios, planning lectures, laundry, writing, drawing, grocery shopping, research and homework. Then, just before bedtime is their Evening's End. They come together to share a single cup passed between their lips. The beverage matters not. It is the vessel to drift into each other's arms, stare into each other's eyes, tease and jest, dream, calm fears, star gaze and moonbathe, steep in quietude, root deeper in each other's souls.

Come Friday nights, they are devoted solely to their hearts. Years later, gigglefests, pillow fights, sing-a-longs, combat chess, cartoons, movies, running Bostons and drawing aces, storytelling and story acting, bake-offs, sibling symphony, waltzes, bhangras and two-steps show up for the weekly Crane-Mills family night pajama party. But now, before the children, it is just their desires to ease them into the week's end. As soon as they enter their home, they discard the week's trials along with their clothes. A t-shirt and pajama pants hung low on his hips for him, one of his shirts and his socks for her are the only attire allowed at the Friday dinner table.

After dinner, he pads softly on the wide plank, honey pine floorboards, lighting candles while she gathers pillows, quilts and treats. They come together to choose the entertainment. Then he stretches on the sofa, holding out his hand to her. She crawls between his legs and rests her head against his chest as they nestle to watch a movie, listen to a concert or read to each other. She feeds him dark chocolate bits, letting him lick her fingers clean. He feeds her spiced sweet potato chips, letting her tongue the seasonings off his long tips.

They typically don't make it to the end of a film, performance or more than a few chapters. The candy, along with their clothes, is quickly abandoned in favor of a long, hard suck on her dark, ripe nipples. As he rubs the small of her back, she sings to him, having learned all of his favorites. Lately, she presses him to join in so that she can feel his baritone rumble through her body. Other times he tells her silly, corny, naughty jokes, just to hear her laugh, watch her melt, feel her roll her body more urgently against his.

He makes her laugh again when he flicks his tongue repeatedly in her bellybutton. Her moans stiffen his cock as he licks and sucks the luscious lips between her legs. That first swirl of the tip of her tongue around the tip of his cock renders him hotdizzy. She wants it fast and hard, he gives it slow, then fast and hard. Once he is dickalldeep inside her, they fuck each other raw. She screams his name when she comes, he thunders when he fills her, she floats on the lyric of her name falling from his lips over and over and over. Afterward, still trembling, her hand strokes his beard, his fingers stroke the hollow of her throat to the beat of her heart, they kiss and whisper and kiss and whisper. Holding each other's gaze, he is besotted in brown, she bathes in blue.

Saturday mornings find them in a tangled nuzzle on a sofa, crawling off the floor in front of one of the fireplaces, blissed in their bed, spent on the stairs, chased into a garden chaise or collapsed against a wall. Since the surgeon recommended by Ichabod's father replaced Abbie's knee implant, their lovemaking has grown much more adventuresome and acrobatic. A hand-held stroll through the vast open air market called Paradise gives them a chance to loosen worn, but sated limbs.

It is an unhurried task to fill burlap totes with fresh fruits and vegs as they linger over wares old and new. Still, when Ichabod has wandered off and Abbie needs him, all the vendors have learned to send the call sailing the stalls and stands until it reaches Claudelle's pâtisserie. Within 10 minutes, his daddy long legs bring him back to his beloved's side. She kisses away the sugar still dusting his lips, then shows him her latest find.

The rest of weekend is a roulette of bike rides, countryside walks, cottage tending, book hunts, baths for two, spiritual rituals, chess trash talk, giving to others, brunch in the park, dinner dates, separate spaces, reconnections of a shared life.

Their professional lives bring them almost as much fulfillment as their home life. He garners praise and reward for an online history lecture series he created in a collaboration between Oxford and Sleepy Hollow universities. Her classes grow more inspiring instead of intimidating. Her professors love her matured passion. Thanks to doubling up on her workload and summer classes, she will graduate ahead of schedule with a Bachelor of Fine Art degree. She is already an apprentice with an art fraud investigation team. Oxford gives root to their ambitions; their marriage gives flight to their dreams.

********

The wind slices icy reminders across his cheeks that it is still January. Yet, underneath his sage wool scarf is a smile spread wide across Ichabod's face that can not be diminished. As he cycles home, memories of last weekend's mini-vacation with Abbie blanket him from the weather.

The way the sun burnished her skin, her squeals when she lost her struggle against the gentle waves from claiming her hair, her relaxed thighs sweat slick on the moonlit beach as his cock remained throbbing inside her, sleepily watching sunrise brush fleshtones over their night-shaded bodies. He knew since moving to England she missed her quick escapes to sunny beaches. The surprise of a few days in a cocoon on the Mediterranean pleased him as much as her, courtesy of the online lecture bonus. The trip was three days ago and 50 degrees hotter, but the warmth remained as they lay in their bed this morning, softly reminiscing as his fingertips stroked between her legs and her tongue licked the small, pink scar on his chest. Although it was only Thursday, he decides for tonight to make that braised lamb pastry, with apricots and thick vegetables stewed in saffron gravy, a dish that had made her hunger hum upon their discovery in a restaurant tucked back among the old stones.

Abbie won't be home for another two hours, so there is time. After he closed the heavy front door, he lights the living room fireplace to burn off winter's bones before continuing to the back of their home. He places some items on the soapstone counter, but chooses to deal with the mail, first. Ichabod sits at the aged pearwood desk in the kitchen, distractedly opening an envelope as another memory from their getaway captures his attention. The faint swoons of Duke Ellington's A train had beckoned them to a pavilion where American jazz was being performed. Watching Abbie sway and sing in the breeze squeezed his heart. They had not been out dancing in quite awhile since school demands took over the spare hours. Ichabod closes his eyes to relive the slide of his wife's hips against his groin to the swing of lilting saxophones.

When his eyes open, they read "Abbie Mills-Sleepy Hollow Savings and Loan balance: $16,080.40."

The fight isn't about the money.

He had not realized he has not moved in two hours until he hears the sound of keys jangling. Truth be told, he has been afraid to move. No secrets, they had promised each other.

Abbie had not accepted it well when Ichabod revealed to her the extent of his net worth. She was aware he is rich, but her experience with money had not prepared her for wealth. She had refused to sign the papers which granted her an equal authority over his multiples of millions and total inheritance of his estate, without conditions. She couldn't read all of the fine print which gave her a full portion of Crane family holdings measured in sterling, antiquities, and acreage, that had accumulated and amassed over generations and centuries, safe against misfortune by the sheer weight of the fortune. She rescheduled, then cancelled appointments with accountants and solicitors. When Ichabod and his parents met to discuss which charities and causes would receive which amounts, the sums staggered her tiny body into a corner chair, pushed her knees to her chest and smothered her voice.

After Ichabod sat her down and sheltered her in his arms, he coaxed Abbie to lay bare her fears. He reminded her that he was following his father's example of living on his wages. He reasoned with her that as long as they were open and honest with each other, no amount of money could harm them. Abbie signed the papers combining their finances. Staring up at him with big, wet brown eyes, she joked, his millions were hers, her pennies were his. He was not joking when he said she was his most cherished treasure.

"Have you made accommodations to leave me?  
---  
  | _What sweet pea? It's whipping up out there. Let me get my hat off. Now, what are you babbling about?_  
---|---  
I do not babble. However, I will repeat myself. Have you made accommodations to leave me? |    
---|---  
  | _Why would I leave you? To go where?_ | _What's going on here?_  
The inquiry should elicit a simple yes or no response, not obfuscation with deflective defences. |   |    
---|---|---  
  |   | _Obfuscations, accommodations,  
what the hell are you talking about?_  
No secrets. We made a solemn promise to each other. No secrets. |   |    
  |   |  _Just what are you accusing me of?_  
_I'm barely in the door and YOU THROW SOME FOOL QUESTION IN MY FACE!_  
Shouting will not remedy the situation, Abigail. |   |    
  |   | _ABIGAIL? Really?                Abigail._  
  |    
  |    
  |  Abbie. |    
  |    
  |   | _No._  
  |    
  |    
  |   | _I am hardly in the house when_  
OUR house! |   |    
  |   |  _I know where I am, dammit. YouReallyWantToCorrectMyChoiceOf WordsRightNow? YouReallyReallyReallyReallyReallyWant ToDoThatRight Now?_  
_Huh?_  
I       am       merely  
identifying  
that  
this       is a shared domicile,      which  
is home  
to  
our  
avowed  
coupling. |   |    
  |   | _I don't need you correcting me and I certainly don't need you reminding me of our relationship. I know that I am your WIFE, but I don't recognize YOU right now as my husband._  
I AM your husband, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. |   |    
  |   | _I didn't say that. I did not say that. You are putting words in my mouth and that's never going to work with me._  
  |    
  |    
  |   | _Who are you? What is wrong with you?_  
  |    
There is naught wrong with my person.  
I have simply uncovered that my beloved wife, to whom i promised to never keep secrets, has chosen to cloak a significant part of herself from me. |   |    
  |   |  _Hmh. I wasn't aware you were investigating me. Look, if you_  
_think you know something, why don't you just_  
_come out_  
_and say_  
_it?_  
I believe I did just as you have asked. Yet, you employ avoidance of the question at hand. |   |    
  |   | _Leaving you? You're accusing me of planning to leave you without a shred of evidence. Excuse me for being blindsided when all I have done is shown you how much I love you._  
It has been tallyed, documented and journeyed across an ocean that you have done quite a bit more than that. |   |    
  |   |  _See, right there. I don't know what the hell that means. Why are you being so cryptic?_  
_Speak up!_  
_You have some evidence, SHOW ME!_  
THIS! |   |    
  |   | _Ha! This is your smoking gun, Sherlock?_  
A sardonic response is most unhelpful at this juncture. The more applicable metaphor would be 'hand in the cookie jar'. |   |    
  |   |  _And regulating my behavior is 'most unhelpful'._

_Hold up, hold THE FUCK UP!_

_Are you accusing me of stealing your money?_  
  
Our money,             OUR MONEY! |   |    
  |   | _You're calling me a lowdown thief?!_  
That is NOT what I said.  
  
I am trying, most patiently, to understand why your impressive  
comPendium of Pennies  
was withheld from the union of our finances. |   |    
  |   |  _(Hisssssss) You. Did not. Go. There._

_No, you're not trying to un-der-stand a damn thing._

_You're still on the lookout for a gold digger like your ex._

_How DARE YOU lower me to the level of that trick Mary!_  
  
I have done no such thing! |   |    
  |   | _Yeah, no, before I hit the door, you had already decided I was keeping secrets from you and planning to leave you._  
You did keep a secret. I knew nothing of this account. |   |    
  |   | _Thin-kh for a minute. If I really were keeping a secret from you, why would I let this statement come to OUR house?  
Hmmm, _  
_why_  
_would_  
_I_  
_do_  
You were the deTECTive.  _that?_ |     
---|---  
Perhaps you would care to enlighten me with the motives behind secrets? |   |    
---|---|---  
  |   | _Oh, no! It's ok for YOU to be sardonic instead of answering my question, huh?_  
You have yet to answer my original question and you offer no explanation after I have shown you the enumerated evidence. |   |    
  |   |  _Since you're still treating me like a suspect,_  
_I_  
   _don't_  
           _owe you_  
                        _a_  
                          _god_  
                             _dam_  
                                    _explanation._  
I  
shall  
require  
some time  
to clear  
my thoughts  
and gather  
my bearings. |   |    
  |   |  _Yeah,_  
_why_  
_don't_  
_you_  
_do_  
_that?"_  
  
Abbie presses her hands against the table to stop her shaking. Her wide eyes look around the room. Worn stone floor, sage plates stacked behind a mullioned glassfront cabinet, black cast iron oven, unlit candles in coppered sconces, her pastoral renderings in charcoal on the walls, sunflowered curtains, fresh herbs and succulents growing in fat confits over the hearth, long and tiny footprints pressed in the blue rug, yes, this is their kitchen. When she sees the package of fresh lamb on the counter not far from a basket of dried apricots, she knows what he had planned to serve for dinner. The way he had hummoaned as she fed him the remainder of pastry from her plate was more delectable than finishing it. That man loves to cook and to eat. That man loves her, she thought. The one who just strode out into the night's misery without his topcoat, that man is not her Ichabod.

The account statement lay on the old barnwood table like a gravestone. How could he have reached such a ridiculous conclusion? From where is this suspicion and distrust coming, now, when everything has been so wonderful? She had urged him to spend the lecture series award on himself. He had worked so hard on it and it was an achievement that left both universities bragging. Although the wintertime trip to the sunshine was a surprise, sharing his reward with her is just the latest way her husband expresses his passion for her.

That radiantly lush October afternoon in his parents' sculptured gardens, as she walked down the grassy aisle, clutching flame-colored calla lilies, smiling at her friends from America, getting smiles from his English family and friends, she looked ahead to see him bouncing in his polished boots. He suddenly left the ivy-covered archway and rushed up the aisle to meet her. Flipping back the tails of his dove grey longcoat then dropping to one knee, he took her hand off her wedding bouquet and asked her to marry him. She smirked and pointed out she was dressed for the occasion. He kissed her fingers left bare of the tiny black pearls gloving her hands and asked her again to marry him. She lifted to her lips his hand that would not let go of hers, kissed it and said yes. Embraced by laughter and applause, Abbie and Ichabod walked down the aisle together to vow in front of everyone what their hearts had already done, bond them as husband and wife for life.

********

The tall clock pounds out 11 bongs. The fire is just heatless flicks now in the darkened room. When the front door opened, there is nothing to stop the chill from creeping into their home. She jumps from the sofa, sees him paused there, draggled and ashen as if he just clawed out of a cold grave. She runs from the room, returning with large towels. She is too short to reach his head, so she hands him one of the towels, then takes his chilled hand to lead him to the fireplace. He leaves the towel draped over his head as she rebuilds the fire, then turns up the central heat. She sits him on the carved bench so that she can reach him. As she dries his hair, neither speaks. As she removes his sodden jacket, scarf, sweater and shirt, neither speaks. As he removes his boots, pants and underwear, neither speaks. When he stands naked in front of the fireplace, she can't speak.

"Abbie |    
---|---  
  | _Unh-unh_  
                                               Abbie |    
  | _No_  
                                 I want |    
  | _I don't._  
You've not even |    
  | _So_  
But |    
  | _No_  
We cannot |    
  | _What?"_  
  
Again, she leaves the room. Again, she returns, this time with a thick henley and pajama pants. He doesn't take his eyes off her as he pulls on the clothes over his paled frame. She keeps her eyes on him as she backs into the wide armchair where the two usually entwine to enjoy light reading and tickles. She looks like a small doll in the chair without him, he thinks. She unfolds her arms as she notices the pink beginning to return to his lips.

 

   
---  
  | _"It's late._  
So,  
we have arrived at the  
nocturnal hour that is our  
Evening's End.  
  |  _Not thirs_  
  
_thir_  
(cough)  
  
_THIRSty._  
I see.  
  | _Yeah_  
Then  
I shall retire as I have an early class in the morrow.  
  | _G'night_  
Oh. good night."  
  
He lights the fireplace in the bedroom in the hopes she will soon join him. He turns down both sides of the bed in the hopes she will soon join him. He curls beneath the covers, stares down the hallway at the orange glow from the living room below, in the hopes she will soon join him. She doesn't. For the first time since the first time. Her lavender wheat bag perfumes in the heat of the room; the soporific scent, empty of her, keeps him awake all night.

She does not plan to "sleep on the couch" but she stares into the flames for so long, she drops off from exhaustion and falls into a deep, hollow unrest. When she awakes in the chair, she finds her head on her pillow and her orange and black SHU fleece blanket tucked around her. The gumminess of yesterday's clothes, caked by fitful sleep, leaves her wanting a steamy shower. The aroma of their favorite coffee detours her to the kitchen. But the expected warmth is upset with the reality of a chilly, barren room His emptied bone china cup and saucer on the counter and his burgundy coat missing from the rack are all that outline his absence. She could step into the morning without the flavour of warm butter and sweet berries on her lips. For the first time since the first time, she will enter the day without the taste of his kisses satisfucking her.

Ichabod sits in his office on campus, shrouded by the early morning's still darkness, with his forehead pressed against the desk.

"I  
am  
a  
coward."

All day, the passing hours drag, missing the lift of text chimes and call rings that wire caresses, laughs, comfort between them. When Abbie approaches their back entrance that evening, she notices there is no light shimmering against the waterfall glass in the door. Her hand flutters over the bronze latch. She finds their kitchen in pitch, as vacant as she left it.

She follows the only light on in the whole house to their study. Ichabod looks up when he feels her standing in the doorway. Her eyes fall from the filigreed pen twirling across his fingers to the long boots still on his legs.

   
---  
  | _"Working on a Friday night?_  
No.  
  
Hhmmmm, I have yet to start dinner.  
  | _Don't bother._  
I could prepare a light repast.  
  | _Are you hungry?  
_  
No.  
  | _Me, neither._  
Abbie, we need to talk.  
  | _Go ahead._  
I

We

Perhaps,  
we should dispatch  
with the accounting statement, first  
  
  |  _Still on that, huh? That's where_  
_you want to start, there?_  
  
NO,

I

I do not understand what has  
happened. I do not know what has  
come between us.  
  
  |  _Really? You don't know? Does_  
_your accusation come_  
_to that eidetic mind?_  
Yes, Abbie, I have total recall of  
what was said, but I am offended  
you would infer an accusation  
from my question.  
  |  _Wait, back up. You're offended?_

  
_You did accuse me of planning_  
_to leave you._  
  
I did not accuse, I ahhhsked.  
  |  _You accuuuuuused._  
_And raising that finger_  
_at me_  
_won't change_  
_that._

  
_I'm not having this_  
_conversation_  
_with you right now._

  
_It's clear_  
_you're_  
_not ready_  
_to TALK."_  
  
This Friday night passes in the Crane-Mills home with him in the study and her in the garret. The huffs from the furnace, the swish of the pendulum and the soft tick, tick, tick from the tall clock are the only movements and sounds against the void. It is almost midnight when they meet again in their bedroom. He lights the fireplace, then goes into the bathroom. She turns back the covers, then changes into a black and blue sleepshirt and flannel trousers. As he exits the bathroom, she enters. She returns to their bedroom to find him under the covers, lying stiffly on his back. She turns off the lights then assumes a parallel position.

  |   "Abbie. | _Ichabod._ |     
---|---|---|---  
  |    Sleepy? | _Numbed._ |     
  |   |   |    
  |            May I | _Do you_ |     
  |                get you | _need_ |     
  |                    anything? | _something?_ |     
  |   |   |    
  |                                  Abbie? | _Ichabod?_ |     
  |                                              I | _I_ |     
  |                                        Yes? | _Yes?_ |     
   
  |                                  What?  | _What?_ |     
  |   |   |    
  |   |   |    
  |                  Goodnight. | _Goodnight._ |     
  |   |   |    
  | abbie. | _ichabod."  
_ |     
  
********

Cal Lucien stumbles when he sees Abbie alone. His stall leans at the edge of Paradise, so he can take measure of all who pass through its gates. Even when the market is just faceless throngs, the longtall professor cupping the petite hand of his smiling lieutenant are a Saturday morning glory. Abbie always wonders why his stall is named G. Henna, but she never ventures there. Ichabod always maneuvers himself between her and Lucien, disturbed by the knobbled gnome of a man hissing her unspoken name when he pitches his trades. As she passes unshielded, Lucien approaches her with a costume pair of broken wings. His silver eyes and pearly white teeth entrance her as he suggests her historian husband might have interest in the vesture. The mention of her husband shakes her. She pushes the huckster out of her path and walks away quickly. Cal fans a rumor throughout Paradise: Ichabod has fallen from Grace.

She sees him stretched in the window seat in the kitchen as she approaches their home, his head tilted against the frosted panes. He leaps from his spot to help her with the heavy bags. She wrinkles her nose at the oily scent of cold French toast stacked on the stove.

"You left without me. |    
---|---  
  | _Ok, that has to stop now._  
Pardon?

Oh, I did not mean

Oh, bother.  
You went to market alone.

|    
  |  _Come on, everyone_  
_notices the way you look_  
_at me. How you feel about_  
_me, about us, is all over_  
_your face._

_I would rather not have_  
_everyone gossiping about_  
_us._  
  
I accede to your caution. |    
  |  _Ichabod, look. Can we_  
_ just have a quiet day? I_  
_ know we need to talk, but_  
_ right now, I am so tired. I_  
_ haven't eaten much in the_  
_ last two days, I haven't_  
_ really slept and neither_  
_ have you. It's hard to_  
_ focus and think straight._  
_ I don't feel well._  
Abbie! |    
  |  _It's alright. Ok, maybe_  
_not. But we need to eat._  
_We both need sleep._  
_Just for today."_  
  
He removes his homemade rosemary lentil bisque from the refrigerator, then hands her the leftover ham. She gathers some French toast slices, honey mustard, beefsteak tomatoes and baby spinach, aged Swiss, and powdered sugar. She reaches into one of the burlap bags, then, with an eye roll, she slides a cocoa-colored box with a brown satin ribbon across the countertop towards him.

She moves to the island to slice the ham. They keep stepping in the other's way, bumping hands reaching for the same utensil, repeating questions, spilling, dropping, breaking, sighing. Finally, on opposite sides of the kitchen, they finish assembling and heating the food. At the table, they compliment each other on the smell and look of the spread, then take bites and sips in silence as the savoury lunch goes down with little taste. After half an hour, they return much of the leftovers to the leftover containers.

The tidying is quick. The stair climb to their bedroom is slow. He closes the drapes to block the afternoon light, then uses the wooden extension pole to draw the shade on the skylight. She stokes the scarce flames in the fireplace. Each undressed into long-sleeved t-shirts and underpants, then slip between the flannel sheets and cozy quilts. In spite of the chill outside and within, the room settles quietly into golden warmth. As Abbie tosses a bit to get comfortable, some of her long curls wave in his direction, feeding Ichabod a familiar whiff of her sweet scent. His long arm reaches across the bed and pulls her to him; she doesn't resist.

Down in the kitchen, the ribboned box labelledsits unopened.

*******


	2. The end of the Timeout, the beginning of the Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie gets to the reason behind Ichabod's hurtful accusation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments keep describing this fanfic as beautiful and brilliant. I appreciate that, but I think the beauty and brilliance comes from the collaborative performances of Nicole Beharie and Tom Mison. I'm just transcribing what I saw.
> 
> Housekeeping: In conversations, Abbie is on the right, in italics, Ichabod on the left.
> 
> Added 5-17: I have removed from Chapter 2 a quote I took from sneetchstar's "In Orbit". I am very sorry I did not ask for her permission to use her words. Although I am not on social media, if I could figure out how to use html/css, I should have figured out a way to contact her. My attempt to show appreciation of and respect for her work resulted in unintended disrespect for which I apologize.

His awakening comes slowly.

His arms are empty. The bedroom is chilly. He does not pause for warmer clothing as he goes in search of her, running barefoot up the stairs, three at a time.

The luminous garret is the reason they bought this cottage. That floor-to-ceiling round window with the maple mill work glows like a framed harvest moon over the room.

He exhales raggedly when he sees her there, the fleece blanket draped over her sleeping form, the late afternoon light softly bronzing her face. He towers over her body sunken into the cozy, tufted chaise, its russet velvet timeworn by distant Cranes. He picks up a sketch lying on the floor. It is of him as he appeared in the kitchen window seat earlier that morning. But he hardly recognizes himself. She has exposed all of the hurt in his heart and scarred it onto the shadows of his face. Then he sees another drawing. Just his bearded lips, pinkless, grimaced. Then another drawing. The blue in his eyes swirled in storms. And another. His long pale fingers, limp.

She stirs at the sound of rustling paper and rouses to see her drawings flap back to the floor. Their eyes find each other and hold fast. She knows he wants to talk. He knows she wants to...to...to...what? He doesn't know. Since she let him into her heart, her pains are his wounds; her fears, her sorrow, his tears; her joy, her laughter, his cup running over.

As he bends down to speak softly to her, his breaths get caught in his throat. He straightens. He wrings his hands behind his back to keep his twitching fingers from finding rest in the pillows of her lips. The delicate cellos and mournful peals of the Beatles “She's Leaving Home” low through his mindhears. He shakes his head to clear off the melancholy pall.

Instead, he offers to start dinner. She tells him she's going to take a shower and will be down shortly.

The water runs from cool to hot to icicles before she finally exits. She slowly smooths her favorite citrus lotion around her face, over her arms and down her torso and back, then lays the bottle in the laundry hamper without applying any lotion to her legs and feet. She piles her hair on top of her head in a curly top knot, only to take it down, then flips it all to one side over her shoulder and begins to braid it, almost as furiously as she unbraids it. Raking her fingers through her hair, she stares at glassy brown eyes in the mirror. She has sorted already that it is not the money which instigated his accusation. But she is not ready to hear the real reason. Although, she concludes, he better have a real good reason.

A waft of caramel invites her into the kitchen, just as he is removing from the oven a bread pudding, plumped with the rest of that morning's French toast. He sets two chargers on the barnwood table, knowing she would not be amenable to the more intimate dining room. She pours two stems of Shiraz while he ladles a spicy pork stew into two bowls and crumbles herbed cornbread on top. He lifts his crystal in salute to a quiet evening. But anger and guilt clash to turn up the quiet to a cacophony--the ting ting ting ting ting ting of spoons against porcelain, thick gulps to push along the wine, throat clearings and coughs and coughs and throat clearings, the accusation echoing. She gathers their dinnerware, then sets the stacked dirty dishes in the sink, but turns to leave as he joins her on the rug.

“Don't go |    
---|---  
  |  _I can't_  
  
  
Please  
I miss you dreadfully.  
  | _Don't_  
I miss you. |    
  | _I'm still here._  
Indeed.  
  
It appears 'tis I  
who has done a runner  
from this marriage.  
  |  _Yes, you have._  
  
Please? Stay  
  
  
Just sit.  
We do not have to converse.  
  
  | _How am I supposed to do that?  
Tell me how?  
  
What,  
we just sit here  
and stare at the walls?  
  
Or maybe,  
in front of the TV, we sit,  
together and stare.  
How's that work?_  
This afternoon, you let me hold you.  
T'was you who becalmed my heart  
as it thumpered against your back,  
gentling in syncopation with your own.  
You kindled my warmth  
as it curved around your body.  
I felt your tiny breaths  
prickle the hairs on my arm.  
My repose found peace  
as I inhaled your beauty.  
  
  
Without you, I  
  
  
  
I  
  
  
  
I simply cannot bear it.  
What is there for me in a world without you?  
  
There is nothing for me without you.  
  | _Then why did you do it? WHY?  
Do you even realize what you did?_  
I inartfully presented a query as an interrogatory.  
  
  | _WHAT! That's it?_  
  |  _You know what, I_  
  
      Wait, stop, please do  not                  leave me.  
STOP!  
  | _DON'T_  
  | _TOUCH ME!_  
  | _I can't stay in this room,  
not now.  
You don't even realize  
what you've done._  
Please, help me, I cannot          not                 you.  
  
  | _You.  
You were the one person  
I thought,  
finally,  
I have someone  
I can count on.  
It's ok.  
I can trust,  
I can believe._  
You can entrust me with your life.  
  | _But you don't trust me.  
So how am I supposed  
to give you my trust?  
At the first sign of trouble,  
the first,  
you came at  
me._  
No, that is not what has transpired. No!  
  |  _I am your wife.  
I am not  
your nursemaid.  
I  
am  
your  
wife.  
  
You vowed to  
love me.  
You promised to  
trust me,  
goddammit.  
  
The first appearance of  
a mere question mark  
is not  
evidence to doubt me.  
  
I thought your faith  
  
our bond  
  
was stronger.  
  
I never thought  
  
you  
  
you _  
  
_you  
  
you hurt  
  
  
  
hurt  
  
  
us  
  
  
  
  
me.” _  
  
Saturday night fades to its end undisturbed. If undisturbed is defined as two people separated by confusion, pain, seething. Their sips of Evening's End are left unshared, rejected for a third night. Neither makes it to their bedroom. She balls up on the chaise in the garret, he folds in half on the sofa in the study.

*******

He leaves before dawn's early light. Again. It takes her only five minutes of searching to discover his missing bicycle marks another slip away from their home.

He pedals around Oxford cycleways for a few hours until his thighs ache. He finds himself at an ancient woodland which has become their favorite. In the spring, summer and fall, nature's story is told in sunbrewed blue, wicked red, downy yellow, aurora orange, weathered paddles slapping stilled waters, croaks and honks and whistles and hums, breezes sugared by showers, blooms and ripened splendour, rolling greens cushioning ginghamed feasts, cloud sculptors and sweet, hungry kisses. Today, it is crackled, pallid, desolate. He rests on one of the rocks still frosted from last night's rain. He had not thought to wear shades because it was dark when he left. Now, the light striking off the iced pond is harsh. But it's the winks of sunshine off his antique gold wedding band which cause him to squeeze shut his eyes.

Surprisingly, it rained only one day during their Parisienne honeymoon. After a morning of languid lovemaking by firelight, they found themselves too sexsoaked to leave the heat of their room. Bathing à deux in sensual warmth, afterward, barely dressed, lying in each other's arms, devouring kisses instead of breakfast, a lusty, a lovely Vendredi. When Ichabod opened a book of sonnets to read to Abbie, he was inspired to suggest they compose love letters to each other.

They crossed the room to take one of the complimentary filigree pens each and several sheets of stationery from the bonheur du jour in the suite. Pushing aside the sumptuous breakfast cart, the pair returned to opposite ends of the cast iron bed and swaddled in a white cashmere cover. They stared silently at each other for a few minutes, then Abbie grinned, a little, and began to write.

When she jumped off the bed and raised her arms in victory, claiming extra points for knocking out a haiku, he had to push his tongue into his cheek to suppress a smile. But he couldn't restrain his arousal in his boxer briefs as her breasts waved in the sheer tangerine camisole. Lofting an eyebrow over his tortoise shell-rimmed glasses, Ichabod intoned this was not intended as a competitive endeavor. With a tilt of her head, Abbie released her pen to drop it to the floor and grabbed a Lalique tureen of pitted cherries cradling on ice. She wiggled her thonged ass at him then plopped herself in a wide leather lounger with a hardback of Nikki Giovanni poetry, a gift he had spotted in a Paris flea market.

Framed by a huge window, where the slide of raindrops dappled watery shadows down her lithe curves, Abbie became in her husband's vision, a Renoir reclining nude. As he admired her beauty and wit, Ichabod proceeded to fill eight pages with his feelings for her. Unable to find wax sealant, he rolled his letter into a cylinder, securing it with one of his leather hair ties. She laughed at his tie, cried over his words, then Abbie beckoned Ichabod to her for an afternoon of lovemaking that was anything but languid.

Joining her on the lounger, he traced her parted lips with cherries, then fed them to her, coaxing her to say ahhh by using his finger to drag deep circles around her clit. He still blushes at the memory of the way she straddled him to tease his pink nipples with those cooled cherries, then sucked taut nipple and cherry into her hot mouth, as her hand slipped into his briefs to rub his cock into aching hardness. He still can't believe how he ripped the camisole down the middle, tucked a few cherries between her breasts then bobbed for pleasure with his tongue in her lusciousness, how he flipped her over, chased a chilled berry down her spine with hot, wet kisses before removing her thong. He drizzled and lickled cherry droplets in the dip just above her ass cleft, her giggles pulling low chuckles from him. When he tossed the cherry back into the bowl, preferring soft biting kisses of her juicy brown cheeks, her moans clawed frissons through him.

He rolled them back on their sides, swelling more at the sight of her ass cheeks cherried with his kisses, and entered her from behind, trembling to feel her wrapped around his dick, tingling her with his whispered wants. With one hand stroking her belly, his other hand plucked a cherry to press against her clit. Abbie hissed and came hard as her back arched from the cold shock combined with his heated thrusts. With his tongue, his fingers, his dick, his kisses, Ichabod kept her coming and coming and coming until he came with such a force that knocked him out cold. Undisputed extra points.

*******

When he sat down his thighs were heatpricked. Now the cold begins to cut through his burgundy coat into his sore muscles. The ache travels up to his arms, then his head. His body hurts. His heart aches. For her.

 Ah   
my   
love,   
 ohhh    
 my heart,   
 my dearest,   
 my beloved, ahh    
my desire, my every  
 thing, my dearheart, my   
dream, my wife, my grace,   
my now, my forever, my soul   
 mate,  my angel,  my humor, my   
  poem, oh my joy, my wisdom, my    
  lieutenant,  my home,  my goddess,   
   my song, my beauty, oooh my reach,    
my partner,  my friend,  my succour,  
my path, my truth, my bath, uuumm  
 my throb, my fire, aaahhhhhhh my   
life, my Ab Ab Ab Ab Ab Ab Ab  
 b b  Ab  bie  bie  buh  buh  buh   
buh buh buh uuh uuh uuh  
uuh uuh uuh uuh uuh  
my treasure  
  
  
---  
  
*******

She nurses a cup of cocoa as she waits by the living room fireplace. Wrapped in his red tartan blanket, she knows they have to talk when he comes home. Whenever that will be. She curls deeper in the rocker and pulls the tartan tighter around her in spite of the roaring fire. Home. She thought she would never really have one. And now, to have a place that hugs her soul as soon as she enters, to hear her name as the girl in some silly love song coming from the shower, to watch with wonder from behind the kitchen curtains while her man (with a few chums) proves he can build her a proper greenhouse, to dream as her husband's deep breathing chases away the nightmares when he tucks her closer. Home.

She hears the chainring of his bike out front then sees him rushing through the doorway, coattail flying, breathing hard. She sits up. She throws off the tartan. She stands.

He doesn't notice the two documents on the coffee table near her. All he sees is her. When she points to the table, his heart races as he recognizes the ink blue calla lily on one of the pages.

 

   
---  
  | _“Pick one._  
Beg pardon?  
  
  |  _Pick  
one.  
Am I this compendium of pennies?  
  
Or am I this declaration of love?_  
  
To be fair, I can choose neither.  
  | _Neither?_  
I choose neither because  
you are not to be reduced  
to a singular facet.  
  
You are all.  
  
You are my everything.  
  
You are everything wonderful,  
everything sweet,  
everything.  
  | _So you still want  
  
want to  
  
  
  
want to be  
  
in this  
  
marriage  
  
with m m me?_  
Oh god!  
  
Oh, No!  
  |  _What?_  
  
  
No, no, no, no, not that,  
That was not the intent of my exhortation.  
  
Yes, yes, yes,  
I desire desperately  
to stay married to you.  
Yes!  
  
  
  
Do you wish  
still to remain  
joined in marriage  
with me?  
  | _Yes."  
  
_  
  
She wants to kiss him. She wants to kiss him so badly. She hasn't quivered under his touch in days. She wants to kiss away the red in her husband's eyes. She wants to press her softness against his hardness. She wants to rake her fingers through his scruff. She won't. Not yet.

 

   
---  
  | _"Ok, sit down  
and tell me  
what is really  
going on with you._  
There has been a concern  
weighing heavily  
in spite of my best efforts  
to dispatch it.  
When I encountered Professor Metznerschitz  
on Thursday,  
he said something odious  
and quite fictive  
which nevertheless shifted  
my half-buried thoughts.  
  | _Cliftass Metznerschitz?  
What did that goffhole say?_  
He heard of our trip  
and opined  
that I am 'quite the benefactor  
to assimilate your newbian, n-e-w,  
with exposure to  
the good white life.'  
  | _What  
the hell?  
  
Why do they always  
think they're so  
fucking clever?  
  
White folk  
don't own the good life  
exclusively.  
I'm not a outsider;  
I belong here  
just as much as anyone.  
This is my life, too._  
Most assuredly, but  
  | _But what?  
That guy is brainless.  
His classes are the lowest rated  
across the entire university.  
Women think he's creepy.  
His writing is so poor,  
his papers get published  
by Foxpit Press only.  
He's here because of connections.  
  
Why are you even listening to him?_  
I quickly dismissed  
his comments,  
replete with  
ignorance and hate  
as they were.  
Still,  
my worries of late  
have focused on  
your happiness living here.  
  | _Ah, I see what's going on.  
  
Your first  
in-your-face  
encounter with racism._  
No,  
no.  
No, it is not.  
  | _Yes, it is.  
Now I get  
why you were so  
insensitive and  
hostile. You  
failed miserably  
when racism  
hit home._  
Steady on.  
Are you implying,  
am I to infer  
  
you believe  
I cannot be properly empathetic  
to the plight suffered by others?  
  | _No.  
But  
it's no longer  
others,  
is it?  
  
You can't  
dismiss this  
as politics or  
excuse old men  
who can't change or  
condemn it  
and move away  
from it.  
  
This time,  
racism tossed  
a brick through your window,  
Ichabod Crane-Mills,  
stirring up your fears._  
But my fears  
  
my fears  
have existed longer  
than my encounter  
with the deplorable professor.  
  
  
  | _So why am I  
just now  
hearing about this? _  
Last weekend, after your misfortune  
with the waves,  
as I helplessly watched you  
dash about the chemist  
in failure to find adequate substitutes  
for your hair care products,  
some self-recriminations arose.  
  | _Tell me._  
I have become afraid  
my quiet English life  
has grown  
into a tiresome burden to you.  
  | _Right, 'cause it was always  
popping in Sleepy Hollow._  
I fear that you did not  
have adequate time  
to consider the changes in your life  
this marriage has wrought.  
I arrogantly assumed  
that my experience  
in moving to America  
could articulate as a primer  
for your relocation to England.  
  
In truth, my comfort zones were merely extended.  
Yours  
have been erased almost completely.  
  
The thousands of tiny accommodations you make every day,  
far greater than the search for  
combs and emollients.  
The utter rudeness with which  
people  
speak over your presence.  
Each compliment of  
how well you speak  
landing like slaps.  
  
I have noticed.  
  
I notice the hurt on your face  
you quickly hide when someone is incredulous  
about your intellect,  
questions your  
enjoyment of classical music,  
expresses concern about 'the pain'  
of your beautiful braids.  
  | _You think I haven't noticed things, too?  
  
Every time I see the hurt in your eyes.  
Every time.  
After you've discovered the men you admired in your youth.  
The men you looked up to as your role models.  
The men in whose footsteps you imagined you'd walk.  
Only to find out they are bigoted buzzards behind closed doors.  
  
_  
  | _I have felt so guilty.  
  
_  
  |  _And afraid, too._  
  
Will you tell me?  
  |  _I've considered  
how your life  
would have been  
easier if_  
  
Please stop, my love.   
  
I wish for you never  
to finish that thought.  
  
My life is easier because of you.  
My life is wonderful because of you.  
Those fossils mean nothing to me.  
I care not what they think.  
  | _So the  
stiff upper lip  
covering up your  
anger and suspicions,  
that was for    ?_  
I have in fact let my fears  
flummox me with a  
most shameful bout of cowardice.  
I am despairingly  
sorry  
for my behaviour  
and for the mistrust  
I have shown you.  
  
In truth, I am still bound  
in wonderment  
that you chose me as your husband.  
I do not, at times, feel worthy of your love,  
particularly now.  
  
But faced with the prospect  
of actually losing you  
has given me some courage  
to confront my fears.  
  
  
  
  
Am I a racist?  
  | _No, sweet pea.  
What you are is  
inexperienced  
at fighting back  
against racism. _  
We never talk about racism,  
not as it affects us specifically.  
I truly believed our love  
shielded us.  
  
I have striven to be colorblind  
and in doing so, I have actually failed you,  
have I not?  
In an effort to be a good husband  
I have done you a great disservice.  
  | _Black people have never  
had the luxury to be colorblind.  
  
Being colorblind is in and of itself,  
it's a level of ignorance.  
If you won't see  
my color,  
you're choosing  
not to see me._  
I can see now  
I have been  
  
inattentive  
  
to the fact that you are black  
and I have taken away your heritage.  
  | _You did what?_  
I have imposed upon you  
one of the whitest environs  
in the world and  
forced you  
to dilute your existence  
as a black woman.  
  | _Are you serious?  
Look at me.  
I am a black woman.  
I was a black woman yesterday.  
I will be a black woman tomorrow.  
You cannot force me  
to be anything less than  
a black woman._  
You have missed national recognition  
of black achievement—Juneteenth,  
Martin Luther King, Jr. day,  
the whole of February, that illustrious museum.  
And familial celebrations—backyard bar-b-cues  
with Soul Train lines;  
potato salad, pecan pies, red velvet cakes and fellowship  
after Sunday sermon.  
  
The university has an inexcusable paucity  
of admittance for black students.  
  
I have but an inkling of your significance  
as a role model in Sleepy Hollow.  
The nascent work you began to gain  
recognition for the heroics  
of your ancestor, Grace Dixon, halted.  
  
Here, you are not acknowledged for  
all that you have conquered,  
you are a public exhibit to too many,  
invisible to others and worst,  
unwelcomed and challenged.  
  
I do not wish for you to live a life  
where you cannot be a black woman fully.  
  | _I am fully black wherever I am.  
  
And where I am is with you.  
Always.  
  
I love you so much, you  
are my peace."_  
  
He watches her with fired adoration as she crosses the room to join him on the sofa. She reaches out to tug on the lapel of the thick topcoat he is still wearing, then allows his twitching hands to grab hold of hers. He kisses those tiny, but strong hands that will care for his heart for the rest of his life.

"I have read Zora Neale Hurston's description  
of black women as 'the mule of the world.'  
I do not believe it is your purpose  
to carry my ignorance,  
but I am sorely lacking in this area.  
---  
  | _Oh, my sweet heart.  
I know you remember what I told you when we were dating,  
about being in a relationship and helping each other.  
  
We fight this battle together._  
I question whether  
I possess the fortitude  
to summon the necessary courage.  
I allowed my fears  
to overtake me completely.  
  
Knowledge of your money  
too easily  
ignited a most  
irrational response of  
unwarranted hurt.  
  | _Listen to me, racism was the torch,  
not the money, not me.  
  
It grows on fear. If you let it, it can turn you inside out.  
I'm actually surprised it hasn't preyed before now.  
  
I have no doubts about your courage.  
Ichabod, you are a very brave man who_  
No, don't.  
I attacked you,  
my heart.  
I have neither earned  
nor am I deserving of  
your support and encouragement.  
  | _When your heart was broken and your trust in yourself shattered, you didn't hide in the comfort of your family and friends. You moved to a foreign land and rebuilt yourself among strangers. I know you have the strength._  
This is different.  
For what it is worth,  
I desire to have the strength  
to face this fight,  
to battle these demons,  
for it means I earn the gift  
to love you,  
to cherish you,  
to give myself to you.  
  
Know this,  
I will no longer benignly  
rant from a polite distance and  
allow you to sacrifice and  
bear witness upfront  
in tacit  
preserve of my privilege.  
  
You, my darling Grace Abigail Crane-Mills,  
deserve better; I vow you shall have it.  
  | _The advantages you've had all of your life, it's going to change.  
  
This will not be easy, but whatever's next, my dear, sweet husband, we're there for each other._  
  
 

_You ready, Ichabod?_  
Ready,  
  Abbie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The love letter was inspired by the business card in havers' “The cOrus” and by Creeping Muse's/JWAB's “Yours, Ichabod: Letters of Love and Lust between the Captain and the Lieutenant”. The conversation was an attempt to address the issue raised by Steelrigged's on point essay "http://steelrigged-blog.tumblr.com/post/142688874681/post-mortem-on-sleepy-hollow" that explains the opportunity we lost was more than just a bit of entertainment. 
> 
> One more chapter to come. Thanks for reading. Critique, comment, enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> If stories such as "In Orbit", "Mutual Constraints", "Within", "Inconvenient Mistletoe", "Trust and Love", "Tabula Rasa", the drabbles, ichababies, so many still in progress (The In-Between), if all that did not exist, the things that actually happened on the show probably would have wrecked me completely. It's one thing to know in your head that something could be better. It has uplifted me, sustained me, encouraged me to see better realized by the true writers in this fandom. To sneetchstar, et. al., thank you one million times for the shelter from the storm.
> 
> I'm too much of an introvert to seek a beta, so please comment. Specifically, formatting this story to post has a been bitch. Between my lack of HTML/CSS knowledge and limited formatting options the Archive provides, it has taken me months to figure out how to code to post this. I believe the spacing, the alignment and misalignment of the words contribute to this narrative. If you don't think it works, let me know now. If the formatting and images don't appear, let me know. Y'all are worth the effort, but DAMN!


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